


Normal

by Marmoset (smallet)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-30
Updated: 2002-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallet/pseuds/Marmoset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The other day, I overheard one of the new guys at the station commenting that he thought the relationship I have with Sandburg just isn't 'normal.'" - Jim Ellison</p>
            </blockquote>





	Normal

## Normal

by Marmoset

The characters and universe of The Sentinel belong to the copyright holders. I wrote this story for fun, not profit.

  
1\. I wrote the original snippet from which this story grew, in order to protest the comments of a troll who once passed through SenAD, attacking us for, among other things, writing m/m slash, because "homosexuality isn't normal." I looked up many of the synonyms of the word 'normal' and brainstormed many of the common associations with the idea. I posted "Normal #1" to SenAD and was encouraged to continue.  
2\. Many have already read the original snippets, but I thought I'd edit it and post it on the archive. A few people have requested that I go beyond what I have here, but I've lost my impetus and feel that this piece, as it is, offers sufficient closure. I'm done with it.  
3\. This piece is placed in time a few months before the episode "The Waiting Room," but after all the other 4th Season episodes (except "'The Sentinel' by Blair Sandburg," of course.)

* * *

The other day, I overheard one of the new guys at the station commenting that he thought the relationship I have with Sandburg just isn't 'normal.' 

The guy was immediately shushed by the old-timer he was talking to, but well, it wouldn't really matter how quiet the guy whispered, I'd still hear him. Been hearing stuff like that on and off for ages. And it baffles me really. 

I'm not _stupid_ or anything. I know the sorts of things they're hinting at but it's not like that. They just jump to conclusions because they don't know about 'the sentinel thing,' as Sandburg calls it. I mean when two people share this secret and are always whispering together and having these private, animated discussions ... well, you know what it can look like. And then there's the fact that we're roommates and he's not a real cop. So I can understand that they wonder. 

But it kind of wears on me, hearing that there's something about how we are together that isn't 'normal.' Like what we are to each other is a bad thing. 

I don't normally dwell on these things, but I've had a lot of time to think these past couple of weeks. First I was down with the flu and lying around feeling sorry for myself. And then just as I was barely coming out of it, Sandburg comes down with it. 

Sandburg is almost never sick, but for some reason it's hitting him even harder than it hit me. I figure he brought me soup and aspirin whenever he was home to do it, so I might as well return the favor. I probably could've gone back to the station yesterday. Simon doesn't have to know that, though. 

Anyway, like I said, I've had more time than usual to think, seeing as I'm just sitting home getting over this thing and occasionally trying to get some soup into Blair. If he ever wakes up, that is. 

At the moment he's passed out on the sofa surrounded by pillows and tucked under an old blanket. I figured he'd feel a little less like an outcast out here than he would hiding away in that little room of his. We can watch TV together, or at least that's what I figured until he just drifted off a few hours ago. 

You know, sometimes Sandburg says shit that floors me. I mean, here he is with a fever of sometimes over 101, choking on snot, and he starts going on about how being around him when he's like this must really be hard on me, what with the sentinel senses and all. 

I mean, when does he ever let up on this compulsive caretaking thing he's got going? 

Well, yeah, he's right: a sick Blair is not exactly what I'd call easy on these senses, even dialed back. 

Take sight, for example. I know what the women normally say about him and it's not that he's a dork; it's that he's 'adorable.' Much is made of his big, dark blue eyes and that sexy mouth of his and his hair and all that. And I have to admit the guy's what some people call 'pretty.' But let's not go there. Anyway, that's not what he has going for him now. 

_Now_ the hair (which I don't think he's washed or brushed in the 5 days he's had this thing) is pretty greasy or wet looking. It's kind of stuck to his scalp and neck in some places and it's sticking straight out from his head in others. It's like he shoved a finger in a light socket or something. 

And when he's awake, his eyes look sort of red, wet and glassy. And right now his mouth looks pretty pale and he's drooling into one of the pillows. And it's not that normal, healthy clear drool; it's that thick snot-mixed-with-saliva stuff. 

And it's not just drool I'm seeing on his face. He's been blowing his nose all day but there always seems to be more where that comes from, like his sinuses are one big snot factory and there's a surplus, an overflow of goods, so to speak, and as he's lying there, it sort of collects at the end of his worn out, red nose and threatens to drip. But even in his sleep he almost always manages to snuffle it back up just in time. 

And that's just sight. 

I can hear the snorting, wheezing and chest rattling from across the room. 

And when I come near him with some aspirin or some juice, I can feel the heat of his fever from about a foot away, maybe farther. And I can feel the condensation of the sweat that pours off him when the aspirin kicks in. And I can feel the sliminess of his sweat-smeared hair whenever I brush it off his overheated forehead. 

Probably hardest of all is the smell. Most people don't think about all the toxins that ooze from them when they sweat out a fever or when the immune system flushes the virus out with all those nasal fluids. Those things have their own signature scents and they in no way resemble roses. And that doesn't take into account the fact that he hasn't really felt up to bathing. 

So yeah, the sentinel thing is not really making my Florence Nightingale act any easier. 

But my thoughts have wandered, haven't they? 

Normal. That's what I'm thinking about. What does 'normal' mean in this context? What would a 'normal' best friend do? And how is it that what I do seems 'not normal' to some people? 

Is it abnormal to stay home from work to make sure he gets enough fluids when he really doesn't feel like sitting up, much less getting himself into the kitchen to make tea? 

Is it abnormal to make sure he doesn't fall when he gets dizzy on the way to the john? 

Is it abnormal to put wet washcloths on his forehead every so often? 

Maybe it is. My dad didn't do that stuff for us when we were kids. He had to go to work and guys back then left that to the women to do, normally. But guys are different now. 

Aren't we? 

And maybe that's really what the new guy meant. Different. Nothing to do with normal, really. Just something he's not used to, I guess. 

But Sandburg's waking up now and I promised I'd help him into the tub today after his nap, get some of the slime off him -- something both he and the old sentinel senses would appreciate. Get him dressed in some clean clothes. Maybe brush his hair out for him. 

"Hey, Jim." 

"Hey. How ya feeling, Chief?" 

"Better. Give me that bath you promised me and I think I'll feel just about normal." 

* * *

A year or two ago, back during our run-in with the golden, Jim reminded me that looks can be deceptive. It wasn't a real revelation or anything. I mean, most people figure that out by the age of 12, if not earlier. It's just that we forget sometimes. 

Take Jim, for example. Some people look at him and see this gruff, closed-down, inexpressive guy. And he's reinforced that image of himself over the years. So you can't blame people for thinking that way. After all, they can only see what he shows them, right? 

But sometimes you just need to know where to look. It's like the sleight of hand of magicians: they wave their hands over _there,_ catching your eye, so they can do their sneaky stuff over _here._ Jim's `sleight of hand' is the way he talks. If you want to see how he got the rabbit _into_ the hat, you gotta look at what he _does,_ not what he says. 

This whole thing with the flu is a good example. 

A couple of weeks ago, when _Jim_ had this nasty thing, I stopped down at the PD for a few minutes and you should have heard the stuff people were saying. All sympathy. For _me._

"How're you surviving, Sandburg?" they were saying. "Hangin' in there?" 'Fine,' I'd say, and then they'd remember, "Jim feeling better?" 

I know what they were thinking; they figured he'd bite my head off if I came near him in his miserable state. And if they heard the _words,_ they would feel justified in their view. 

"Sandburg! Can you _be_ any louder?" 

"I could try but I'd have to go back down stairs and put on my shoes." 

"Is that aspirin?" 

"Sentinel vision is on the fritz, I gather." 

"Just hand it over, Sandburg." 

"Glad to see you're feeling better, Jim." 

"Yeah, well, the aspirin's helped a lot, Chief. Your chicken soup's pretty good, too." 

"Ooh, a compliment. Must be the fever talkin'." 

"Laugh it up, Sandburg. See if I take care of you when you get this shit." 

"Me? I never get sick." 

Famous last words. 

It got me, this thing. The Martian Flu they're calling it down at the PD. Probably brought here by one of Mulder's friends, since nothing on _earth_ could ever feel this bad. 

Jim isn't completely over his own bout with it, but he must be feeling better since he's started ladling the soup down my throat whenever I'm awake. We ran out of my homemade stuff yesterday and he switched to Campbell's but it still feels warm going down. 

Jim hasn't said much today. Just sits there next to me on the sofa watching mindless crap on TV at volumes only sentinels can hear, waiting for me to wake up, it seems, so he can ply me with more aspirin and soup. 

"'Sup, Jim?" 

"You awake?" 

"No, I'm talking in my sleep." 

"Been thinking a bath might be a good idea." 

"Oh, man, I must really be getting rank, here. How can you stand being in the same room with me? Your senses must be, like, totally overwhelmed by now." 

"Yeah, you stink, Sandburg, and you look like shit. Figured a bath might speed up the healing process; maybe then I can get back to work sometime soon. Just so much snot, drool, and sweat a man can stand to look at in one week. Not to mention that rat's nest that used to be hair. You'll probably need some help brushing that out, too." 

When his sigh is so dramatic, so long-suffering, squelching my giggles takes a lot of effort, let me tell you. 

"Don't think I can do a shower, man. Too dizzy when I stand up." 

"I said 'bath,' Sandburg. Pay attention. I'll probably have to bathe you, too" Another sigh. 

"I can probably manage, Jim. I'm not that helpless." 

"You can't even make it to the john on your own; no way I'm leaving you alone in there -- you'd probably drown. IA wouldn't believe it was an accident, no matter what Simon said. Then, I'd have to face charges, fill out all sorts of paper work." 

"If you put it that way, then yeah, a bath would be nice. How about after my nap?" 

"Didn't you just --" 

But I didn't hear the rest. He probably said, "Didn't you just take a nap," or something like that. And he'd have been right to say that. Seems like that's all I've had energy for. But I'm awake now and feeling pretty slimy, so that bath's sounding pretty good about now. 

"Hey, Jim." 

"Hey. How ya feeling, Chief?" 

"Better. Give me that bath you promised me and I think I'll feel just about normal." 

* * *

It's funny, I've never noticed how heavy the kid can be. 

I mean I've had to half-lift him, pick him up off the ground a few times on the job, but I guess I've usually been too busy dealin' with the bad guys to pay much attention to his weight. 

But he's really heavier than I expected. 

And really 'heavy' is a word that just about covers a lot of things about Sandburg. Well, maybe not 'heavy,' exactly ... more like 'solid.' Yeah, _solid._ Like his reasoning. Or his friendship.... 

A lot of people miss that. They assume that since he's an academic, he's stuck way up in that ivory tower. And you could get the idea that his head's in the clouds, what with all the 'new-agey' theoretical stuff he spouts at times. But experience -- _my_ experience -- has taught me that his head may be in the clouds, but his feet are on the ground. The theoretical and the practical meet in Blair Sandburg. 

How'd I get on this train of thought? Oh yeah, he's heavy, weighty, solid. It's what's salient at the moment because I just led him here to the bathroom, half-holding him up all the way. 

It's time for that bath I promised him. 

"You gonna be able to stay upright, there, Chief? You're looking a little green." 

He just nods. Silently. Must be in pretty bad shape to forego the words. 

I've never given anyone else a bath before. I can remember watching Sally bathing Stephen when we were kids; he was maybe three, at the time. Sandburg looks a little too sick to squirm as much as Stephen did, so it'll probably be a little easier. 

There is one slight problem. I'm not sure how hot to make the water. Ever since the sentinel senses kicked in, I've been using a lot less hot water, since hot sometimes has felt too hot. Don't want to chill him or burn him. 

"Chief, could you feel the water, see if it's okay?" 

He does the elbow trick. I remember Sally doing that. Really takes me back. 

"You need help getting undressed?" 

"I got it, Jim." 

Well, he thinks he's got it, but he's taking goddam forever, here. I mean how hard is it to strip off elastic-waistband sweats, for God's sake?! 

"Um, Jim?" 

"What is it, Sandburg? I got other things to do than to wait around all day for you to undress." 

Well, it seems our boy is shy. He's turning his head like if he can't see me, then I can't see him. I guess I'll take the hint and look the other way. But how he ever thought I could give him a bath with my eyes closed is beyond me. 

"It's okay now, Jim." 

Which is the signal, I guess, that it's okay to look. I've noticed that about some people: they don't mind _being_ naked in front of you; they just freeze up in the process of _getting_ naked. I've noticed that mainly in the women I've known, though. When I go to the gym, the guys just strip like it's nothing. Maybe it's being brought up by a woman that does it. Maybe he's learned a lot of 'feminine' ways from Naomi. 

"How do you want to do this, Chief? How about you wash and I spot you?" 

"Sounds like a plan. But I think I'll need help with my hair." 

It's been years since I've done this -- this sitting on the floor next to the tub hanging out with somebody taking a bath. I think the last time was when I was married to Carolyn. When we still liked being married to each other. Had some good talks, then. 

"Whatcha thinkin,' Jim?" 

"How I used to do this with Carolyn. Sit and talk while she soaked in the tub." 

"You ever get in the tub with her?" 

"Nah. Well, we tried once ...It didn't really work; the tub was too small and my legs cramped up." 

"You ever bathe her, Jim?" 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"She didn't actually bathe in the tub. Said she didn't feel really clean afterwards. Instead she'd shower first, then soak in the tub to relax. 

"And she was pretty independent -- didn't like anybody doing for her. I guess she thought they'd think she couldn't do things on her own. Like if I bathed her, I was saying she wasn't my equal, or something." 

And that's something else about Sandburg: he never seems to question where we stand with each other. Unless I give him an obvious reason to. Which, unfortunately, I've done on a couple of occasions. 

"Water's getting cold, Jim; time to do my hair." 

"It's not going to get clean in that soup; Think you could stand under the shower for a couple of minutes?" 

"Not sure. Still get dizzy sometimes." 

"I could get in there with you, hold you up?" 

"You sure that's okay, Jim?" 

"Why wouldn't it be okay? I suggested it -- I wouldn't've suggested it if it wasn't okay." 

"Well, you know, it's kind of ... I mean, you never even bathed with Carolyn, right? So I figure it'd be kind of .. strange for you...getting so ... intimate with me." 

"More intimate than escorting you to and from the toilet? Than watching you drool in your sleep? I think I can handle getting into some hot water with you, Chief." 

He laughs at that. 

"Not like we haven't been in hot water before," he's saying. "Just another chapter in the adventures of Sandburg and Ellison." 

"Shouldn't that be 'Ellison and Sandburg,' Chief?" 

"Depends who writes the book." 

"Ready?" 

"Sure." 

"Don't stand up, 'til I get in there with you, okay." 

And now here's something strange: all of a sudden I feel as though I can't strip in front of him. I've never felt body shy in my life. Guess it's all that stuff he's been going on about. The whole intimacy thing. Kind of puts getting naked into another context. We're not preschoolers with Sally or at the gym any more. Now we're ... what? 

"Chief?" 

And he gives me this look like we're on the same wavelength and just turns his head, gives me a moment. 

"Okay." 

"You sure?" 

"Sandburg, I said 'okay'; I wouldn't have said it was okay if it wasn't okay, okay? So what do I gotta do to get this tangled-up mess clean?" 

* * *

The last time somebody else washed my hair I was about five years old. And let me just say that having your hair washed by your mom is a very different thing from having it washed by Jim. 

Naomi had smaller hands but longer fingernails. And she wasn't afraid to touch me or move my head this way and that so she could get at the hard-to-reach places. 

I think there's something about mothers that makes them feel as though their children are parts of them. It makes sense, in a way. I mean you spend the first 9 months of your life literally as a part of their body; you share the same blood and air supply, even the same food. Then, when you're ejected from the womb, there are still parts of her body that were made for you. Well, that's the way Naomi put it -- that I treated her breasts as though they were mine. She said when I was an infant, I had my hands all over her, as though resuming that connection -- her body was my body. 

So for a few years, it seems normal to have your mom hold you, dress you, feed you, wipe the snot and the drool off your face. And jerk your head around while she washes your hair. 

Sometimes I feel as though Jim and I are forming that kind of connection, but from the outside in. 

"Ouch!" 

"Just hold still, Sandburg. You're squirmier than a little kid. Naomi must've had her work cut out for her." 

"You know, Naomi used to sing to me while she washed my hair." 

"Don't push it, Chief. I'm already in the shower with you; let's not add the indignity of singing Kumbaya to it. Besides, I'm not your mom." 

And that's just it, isn't it. 

You start out life intimately connected with someone, learning from them what intimacy looks like, how to behave intimately. So it's not surprising that you associate the outer forms with the original relationship that spawned those forms. So when Jim feeds me, deals with my drool and snot, and yanks my head around to wash my hair, I think thoughts of 'Naomi.' 

But he's not my mom. 

And I don't have too many other models for this ... whatever this is, where my body is his to pull and push this way and that. And the models I do have, well .... 

"Almost done, here, Chief. But it doesn't smell like it usually does. Did I forget something?" 

"Oh, yeah, I put this rinse on it, helps get the tangles out when I comb it." 

"If it weren't so damn long, you wouldn't have to worry about that." 

"I thought you just said you weren't my mom." 

"Nor do I want to be your mom." 

"Well, just what _do_ you want to be, then, Jim?" 

"There, that should do it. I'll just step out first, then you grab my shoulder." 

He looks away for a moment as he hands me a couple of towels. It's an odd gesture for someone who's just spent the last ten minutes standing behind me under the shower spray. Standing so close I could feel his dick flap against my hip, whenever he made a sudden move. It's not like there's anything left to be embarrassed about, right? 

* * *

"Well, just what _do_ you want to be, then, Jim?" 

What the hell kind of question is _that_?! I don't know how to answer that. 

"There, that should do it. I'll just step out first, then you grab my shoulder." 

And suddenly I can't look at him the same anymore. And for a second, I can't look at him at all. 

I know he's noticed it, this awkwardness. I cover up by covering him up. 

"Whatever happened to your robe, Chief?" 

"It sorta fell apart a few months ago. Been meaning to get another one, never got around to it." 

I go get him mine, wrap him in it. "Can't let you get a chill," I say. 

I'm the one who's shivering. 

"You gonna dry yourself off, Jim?" 

And the kid's laughing at me as I stand here dripping and tightening the belt on the robe. 

But then suddenly he stops laughing, holds his head and looks a little unsteady. 

I lower him to the toilet seat, then grab a towel and dry off. 

Suddenly I feel like I don't know what I'm doing, what I should do next. Get dressed? Get Sandburg back to the sofa? Then, he bends over and rests his head on his knees and it's no contest, really. 

Somehow he's lighter on the return trip. 

"Jim, man, get dressed! You're gonna freeze your butt, get sick again." 

"What? Afraid I'll make you wash _my_ hair?" 

"What hair?" 

By the time I put on clean sweats and go back down, he's nodding off again. 

"Chief?" 

"Hmm?" 

"I don't think you should be sleeping with a wet head like that." 

"But I'm so tired, Jim and this shit takes _hours_ to dry." 

"I think I have a hair dryer upstairs." 

"A hairdryer? You?!" 

"Well, ... smbdylftitr." 

"What?" 

"Somebody left it here. I used to use it to defrost the freezer." 

Well, this is another first -- fussing with a guy's hair. I tried following his instructions, combing it out first a bit before drying it. He seemed to like the warm air on his scalp. I didn't really know how to go about this, but I'd seen Carolyn dry her hair, so I just did what she did -- kinda ran my fingers through, separating the strands while following the path of my fingers with the blower. 

The dryer somehow made his hair look wilder and weirder than usual, but there's no way I'm going to tell him that. I'll just let him discover it the next time he staggers into the john. Can't wait to hear that reaction. (A guy's gotta have his fun, right?) 

Interesting how his hair changes texture as it dries, from sort of slimy and droopy to softer, more clingy, wilder. I love the feel of it as it twines around my fingers and slips between them. 

"Felt good, Jim." 

"Carolyn liked her hair brushed, too." 

"Carolyn seems to be on your mind a lot, tonight." 

"Not really." 

"She's come up a few times. In fact, you've brought her up more tonight than in the past six months." 

"Well, stuff just ... reminds me, is all." 

"I'm not Carolyn, Jim." 

"I don't want you to be." 

"Well, what _do_ you want me to be?" 

"Want some tea, Chief?" 

* * *

The non sequitur is one of the clunkier sleights of hand Jim can try to pull. But this time I let him get away with it, because this time, I'm not sure _I'm_ ready to hear the sequitur. Not fair, really, since I'm also the one who asked the awkward questions. Two of them in one evening. 

"Tea feels good going down. Thanks." 

"Mm," is Mr. Loquacity's reply. 

"I was wrong, Jim. I don't feel normal." 

"Your fever return?" 

"No, don't think so. I mean, I thought your giving me a bath would, you know, make me feel normal. And I do feel better. But I'm not the same. I feel ... different." 

"Probably didn't expect the whole shower thing, either, I guess. Nothing to worry about, Chief; just something that made sense at the time." 

"You know, I overheard some guys talking at the PD a couple of weeks ago." 

"Talking?" 

"About us. Saying we weren't normal." 

"Well, we aren't." 

"Jim?" 

"Well, if we went by the old bell curve, we probably wouldn't find a whole hell of a lot of sentinels in the hump. I'd probably be out at one end where the line almost touches zero. And you're one in a million yourself." 

"I don't think that's what they meant, Jim." 

"I know, Chief; I heard 'em, myself. Been thinking a lot about that. Just don't buy it." 

And really he's right. We've done nothing tonight that somebody somewhere hasn't done for a loved one. 

And that's the thing, isn't it? Loved one. We've moved into that category without really noticing it. Without acknowledging it to ourselves. Definitely not to each other. 

But I think the guy at the PD must've noticed. He just couldn't put a name to the category. So he swept it under the lumpy rug with everything else not understood, with everything else we call abnormal. 

"You tired, Jim?" 

"Yeah. Getting late." 

"Pretty sleepy myself. Think I'll sleep right here, if you don't mind." 

"Nah, it's okay. Think I might sit here for a while, though, make sure you're okay." 

"Love you too, Jim." 

"I know." 

* * *

I'm lucky it's an abnormally slow crime day today. I'm here, but not all here. I couldn't really justify staying home today. I've finally shaken the bug and Sandburg claimed he was better. 

"You sure you're gonna be all right, Chief?" 

"Jim. I'm okay. Go." 

But I have a lot of stuff on my mind. When I got back here today, a few people stopped me in the hallway or in the breakroom to ask about Sandburg. And that's nice. But it was the way they looked at me when they asked .... Or maybe it was the way they seemed to not look at me. Like maybe they shouldn't be asking me. Like somehow it was this secret that he's my roommate, that we both came down with the flu at the same time. Like my concern for the state of his health was, somehow, not normal. 

"How's Sandy doing?" 

"He's doing much better, Megan, thanks." 

"You holding up okay?" 

"Oh, yeah, flu's gone." 

"No. I mean...." 

"What?" 

"Well, it must be hard on you, Sandy's being so ill." 

"Nah. He's no trouble at all. Sleeps mostly. Not hard to give a guy a little soup and aspirin. Besides, he did the same for me." 

"I meant. ... you seem a little lost, that's all." 

"I'm fine, Connor. I'm tougher than I look." 

And that's just it. People look at me, talk to me, like I'm pining over the guy. The guy is just down with the flu, for God's sake. It's not like he's on death's door. 

Though, to be honest, I've worried more than I normally would these past few days. When he's asleep, he looks so ... gone. I've never seen him so sick. Reminds me of his mortality. And somehow that makes me face mine. 

I've been staring at this file for 30 minutes and I can't even remember what I was thinking about when I opened it. I'm hearing sounds I normally filter out. Whispers in the hallway, conversations in the bathrooms. 

"Jim!" 

"No need to yell, Sir." 

"That's the fourth time I've called your name. Are you okay?" 

"Maybe not." 

I hate it when these senses go on the fritz. First too loud, then cutting out completely. I feel like I'm really losing it. 

"Sandburg know about this? What does he say?" 

"Sandburg's still sick, Sir." 

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, so are you. Go home. Fix this. Then maybe we can get back to normal around here." 

* * *

"Sandy." 

"Megan?" 

"You all right?" 

"Better, thanks. What's going on?" 

"Just dropping off y' mate." 

"'Mate,' Connor?" She's looking puzzled by the question. 

"'Buddy,' Jim." 

"Yeah, 'buddy.'" (And she's rolling her eyes) 

"Simon gave him strict orders to stay home until whatever is wrong with him is 'fixed.' Said you'd know what to do. Call me if you need anything, guys." 

"Thanks, Megan." 

"Yeah, thanks." 

And that was really it as far as finding out just what I was supposed to fix and why anybody thought _I_ was in any shape to fix anything. I inferred that something was up with Jim's senses and his subsequent behavior seemed to suggest that I wasn't far off. But for the first hour after he came home, all he did was sleep. And that wasn't normal. 

You'd think that someone that expended as much energy as Jim does every day would need to put in at least eight hours every night, maybe more. But he's one of those irritating guys that does just fine on about six or seven hours. And he's more or less a morning person. More or less in that he's up at the crack of dawn but he's not disgustingly cheerful about it. Me -- I've had to make do with about six hours each night, but truth be told, I need more. A lot more. And I am so _not_ a morning person. I will force myself to get up early, but if you happened into the kitchen on those mornings, you'd find me standing with my eyes half-closed, leaning into the counter, hoping the top of the blender would hold my head up long enough for me to make my morning shake. 

So it's no surprise to me that when I finally crashed and came down with this flu, I just slept. 

But Jim is another case. All the time he and I've been sick, he's gone about his normal sleep cycle. It's just that I think he must've slept sitting up next to me on the sofa a couple of nights. 

I guess the stress of that -- of sleeping sitting up -- must've really taken its toll. 

But I just don't get it. He's done that before without crashing like this. 

After he woke, he told me he had been having trouble with his hearing at the PD. Seems he was listening in to the gossip, over-extended himself, and kinda zoned out. Or at least, that's what I'm guessing from the terse replies to my queries. 

"So Jim. What happened, man?" 

"I told you. My hearing went on the fritz. First too loud, then gone." 

"But we need to try to figure out what caused it so we can fix it." 

" _We_ don't need to do anything right now, Chief. _You_ need to rest." 

"Fine, I'll rest. Just ...Talk to me, okay. It'll make me feel better. What were you hearing at the station when it was too loud?" 

"Nothing important, Chief. Just gossip. The usual BS." 

"Ooh, gossip. Entertain me." 

"Not sure you'd like to hear it." 

"Gossip about _me,_ Jim?" 

"Sorta." 

"Jim?" 

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" 

"Nope." 

"You must be near full recovery." 

"You're stalling." 

"Some guys in the first floor men's room--" 

"Where were you?" 

"My desk." 

"Sixth Floor?!" 

"What did I say, Sandburg? These guys were washing their hands -- I could hear them getting paper towels out of the dispenser -- and one says, 'Ellison's back' and the other says, 'Yeah, but I hear "The Missus" is still out.'" 

"The Missus?" 

"Yeah, sorry." 

Jim looked so embarrassed by all that, I just cracked up. 

"You think that's funny, Sandburg?" 

"It's just that I thought it would be a lot worse, the way you held back so much." 

"I guess I'm just a little bit tired of it, Chief. You don't deserve it." 

"Well, I've had to put up with jokes about my hair for years now, Jim; it's no big deal. I just think it's funny that after over 35 years of guys my age wearing their hair long, people still make cracks about it. Either I'm a druggie or a girl. 'Missus,' huh? I could do a lot worse than being a 'missus.'" 

"Laugh it up, Sandburg. I don't think it was your hair they were talking about." 

So there it was again. I was being categorized but maybe not the way I was thinking. 

"It's interesting how people come up with those things, Jim" And I know he knows just what 'things' I'm talking about. "It's metonymy, really -- the part for the whole. They see the long hair and it's a part that calls up a whole picture for them. The picture isn't of me, but they have one and it's a picture of a girl or a druggie. 

"They see how tight you and I are and that part of who we are calls up another whole picture. And they use the words associated with that picture." 

"Maybe." 

"It's nothing to worry about, Jim. Who we are is who we are. They don't define that; we do." 

"But 'Missus,' Chief?" 

"Well, they've got the roles backwards, but...." 

And after he thwapped me with a sofa cushion, we were back to normal. 

* * *

"But you have a fever; you're still sick." 

"My temp is 99." 

"Exactly. Normal is 98 point 6." 

"Not for me. For me, normal is 99. It's been that way since I was a kid. Naomi had to have the doctors put that on my chart, that I don't have a fever until I go over 99. Naomi was wise to all that because she had the opposite problem. She'd feel sick and have a 'normal' temperature of 98.6. Then, a doctor realized that because of all her meditating or whatever, her normal temperature was really 97, so when the thermometer hit 98, it meant she had a fever. What we call 'normal' body temperature is only statistically 'normal,' Jim. 

"In fact, a lot of what we call 'normal' in life is really just that -- a statistical norm. Like normal intelligence, the 100 IQ. Thirty-three percent or more of the population has an IQ either above or below that. Probably a lot of the people I work with at the university have IQ's we could call abnormally high, like 130 or above. 

"Sometimes not being 'normal' can be a good thing, Jim." 

"I know that. Where is all this coming from?" 

"I don't know. I guess it just bugs me how we in our culture are quick to categorize something that is not statistically normal as 'illness,' or something equally negative." 

"Well, you can just relax, because I accepted long ago that you weren't normal." 

"Ha. Ha. But you're still doing it. This is normal for _me._ " 

"Got it, Chief. And it's a good thing that what's normal for you isn't statistically normal -- did I get that right, Professor? -- because if you had been normal, you never would have done that bullshit in the hospital and I'd probably be in a rubber room by now." 

"That wasn't bullshit; that was--" 

"Don't push it. It was bullshit, and you know it. 'Too far ahead of the curve for this techno-trash'-- what the hell did that mean, if anything?" 

"It meant you weren't 'normal.' Besides, it worked." 

"What worked wasn't the bullshit. What worked was that you appeared out of the blue and bothered to sling it so hard. What worked was that my problems mattered so much to a stranger. What worked was that the abnormality of my situation was acknowledged and met with equal abnormality." 

"Wow! You've really ... I didn't know you ..." 

"I've had three years to figure it out, Chief; it's no big epiphany. 

"So if you're done explaining to me that you're feeling normal, can we just get in the truck and get back to the station -- there's work to do." 

* * *

Customarily, the Major Crime poker game is held at one of our places on the Friday nearest the new moon. Don't laugh. Sandburg actually ran the stats on the department and figured out which nights we were statistically least likely to be called to a crime scene, and the new moon was the winner. And over the past two years, our games have been called on account of crime about 30% of the time, down from 50% in the two years before Sandburg did his research. 

And usually, we rotate places alphabetically. Which means that our place gets double duty, once following Connor, the other following Rafe. But we missed a turn a few times ago during that flu we both had, so we're up to the E's again. 

Since he missed his turn to host, Sandburg was supposed to set things up this time, but the ditz forgot. 

"No, it's _your_ turn. E-Ellison, your turn." 

"But you missed last time, Chief." 

"'Cause I was sick, remember?" 

"Yeah, so that means it's your turn, to make up for last time." 

"That's ridiculous! There wasn't any game." 

The argument went on for a ridiculously long time. Meanwhile time ran out, Megan showed up, and there wasn't any beer or chips. Nothing. 

"I'll go get some stuff, guys, no worries." 

"No, Megan that's not fair; you had your turn last time. I'll go." 

But the two of them ended up going off together. 

You'd think Sandburg would have put the moves on her before now. She's tall; he likes 'em tall. And smart. And strong. But even though she's been here for several months now, he's kept his distance. Somewhat unusual for him. Could never figure that out. I mean, it's not like he doesn't like her. They seem to have this rapport and mutual respect for each other. And they're about the same age. So I just figured... 

But really, as much as I razz him about his love life, he really doesn't have much of one. I was thinking about that the other day. I can't remember the last time he went out on a date. And I thought _my_ love life had folded this past year. I guess he's just been busy. Or maybe it's aging. 

I don't like to think about Blair aging. I mean, I like it that he's a little less flaky and more mature than when he first BS'd me in the hospital, but I kinda miss the way he used to rise up on his toes when he was pleased with something. Now he seems slower, quieter. More sedate. 

It's not that he doesn't get excited about stuff; he still has that enthusiasm for life that has been so endearing. It's just that he's more ... contained. 

I'd love to see him lose that reserve again. Just once in a while. 

Yeah, I know. Who am I to talk about being too reserved. It's just that, well, I miss his bounce. 

Well the game should go pretty well. Most of us have gone undercover at one time or another so we have pretty good poker faces. 

Unfortunately for Connor, she tends to play airheads when she goes under, so she has a tendency to go wide-eyed when she's bluffing; she usually gets trounced. 

Turns out the whole sentinel thing -- the fact that I can see the dilated blood vessels and hear the changes in heartbeat when the good cards come or when someone's bluffing -- is a real drawback. I know what you're thinking: how could being a lie detector be a 'drawback,' right? Well, on the job, it's not. But when you just want to hang out with the guys for a friendly card game, well, it sort of takes the sport out of it. So I've taken to dialing everything back, just to keep everything friendly. 

Problem is, I don't need sentinel senses to read Blair. Don't get me wrong: he's good. It's just that when you live in a guy's back pocket for over three years, you get to know his BS face, even when no one else can... He's not so sure that it isn't the sentinel thing, so just to keep things right between us, whenever I see him trying one of his scams, I fold. No matter what. I make some sort of excuse, go get everybody some beer, more chips. 

I mean, I like winning as much as the next guy, but there's winning and then there's _winning._ And it's all a matter of definition. Of what the prize is. 

And let me tell you: when Sandburg pulls one of his bluffs, when he just trounces everybody with a couple of fives -- when he wins -- you can hear the chair creak from his bounce; he can light up the block with the light from his smile. 

Now, Blair's not stupid; he probably knows what I'm doing when I suddenly decide to go pour myself another cold one. And if he does, I'm pretty sure he knows why. So every once in a while, when that smile blazes, he sends it my way. 

When he wins, I win. 

But we better watch it, or somebody -- probably Connor -- is going to catch on. 

* * *

Earlier tonight, on the way to the grocery store, Megan asked, "Does something seem a little .. off about Jim, lately, Sandy?" 

"Off?" 

"Well, not his typical self, I suppose, then." 

"How so?" 

"I haven't known Jim as long as you have, but I suspect that he's usually more .. organized, orderly. I never would have expected him to not have drinks and snacks ready for poker night." 

"Oh, that. A simple misunderstanding; he thought I was going to do it, since I missed my turn last time." 

At the checkout counter, we stood looking in silence a moment at the piles of snacks and six-packs of beer. Then, as though no time had passed between the drive over and that moment, she started up again, "Maybe .. but there's still something about him .... I can't quite put my finger on it." 

That's how Megan got me started on this new train of thought. 

I wouldn't listen to just anybody on this; Megan notices things, worries at them, tries to make sense of things that are 'off.' She's good at it, too. 

But I wondered a few things of my own. 

"Megan, I was wondering..." 

"Hmm?" 

"I just -- I would have thought that by now, you and Jim woulda ...." 

And she just laughed for a minute before taking pity on me. 

"You're serious?" 

"Well, yes, dammit; why not? He's a great guy: smart, good-looking, loyal, all heart--" 

And she just gave me this look. Like there was something embarrassing she didn't want to tell me. But all she said was "Yes, you've helped me see his good qualities. But .. I've made it a rule never to come between ... partners. Besides, what makes you think Jim is even looking for anyone?" 

And that stopped me cold. I realized all of a sudden that except for the odd outing with dangerous former girlfriends or demented she-sentinels from hell, Jim's love life has pretty much been doornail dead for about a year now. And I thought _my_ love life was a goner. 

And then she hit me with, "Maybe he doesn't really need anyone; maybe he has what he needs, already." 

And she just _looked_ at me waiting for me to get the goddam clue. And I just looked at her trying to decide how to react to that. 

"You've been listening to too much gossip, Megan," was what I said but not what I thought. And she knew it. We were almost to the loft when I stopped trying to bullshit her; it's a waste of time with her, anyway. 

"You really think ... ?" 

"Well, it's a theory. Of course, you know him better than I do; I could be wrong." 

And it's not as though such thoughts hadn't drifted through my consciousness from time to time; it's just that normally they've drifted in and drifted on, leaving me wondering where they came from. 

But we were back at the loft and the guys were already there, so this train of thought would have to wait. 

And just as he always did, on poker nights, Jim opened the door about a half second before I turned the knob. 

Even after all these years, it amazes me that he can do that, especially when he has the sound of all those other guys to distract him. I'm still astounded that he manages to filter out the loud exchange of jokes, the laughter, the clattering and clinking. That he knows it's me out here through all that. 

And I'm still mulling that over twenty minutes later when I hear a loud knock. 

"Doesn't anyone answer the door around here?" 

And Jim looks up, looks me in the eye, then looks away and says, "Sorry, Rafe, I just didn't hear you, what with all the noise." 

And all of a sudden, I realized that there was more than one poker game going on here, and one of them had nothing to do with cards. 

* * *

"How many ya want, Sandburg?" 

"I'll take two." 

Another garbage hand. A coupla tens. Might as well fold; Henry's got jacks or better or he couldn't've opened. That's how I was thinking anyway, when I noticed nobody's bettin' very hard. So I'm thinking maybe I could pull a bluff. And shit, just as I'm thinking that, Jim gives me this look and kind of frowns. He knows. Might as well give it up. But just as I'm about to open my mouth, 

"I'm out. Chief, your glass is empty, want another?" 

"Thanks, Jim." 

"Anybody else?" 

"Sure, since you're pouring." 

And Jim gets up, goes to the fridge, kind of rattles around in there more than necessary -- I mean, the beer's right there in front -- and then he's back, passing out stuff, pouring, filling bowls. And it occurs to me that this is the fourth time tonight he's done that -- folded just when I'm about to start bluffing. 

I know he's trying to avoid using his sentinel senses to his advantage; he claims to dial it way down on these nights so we all have a level playing field. And he wins and loses hands at about the same rate as everybody else. Well, except for Megan, who is just godawful at bluffing. But he does this folding thing only when it's my turn to bluff, not with anybody else. 

And it's finally dawned on me that no matter how much he dials down, he can't filter me out. 

Megan's been watching us all night. She just looks from Jim to me like we're some sort of silent Ping-Pong game. She's always done that but tonight I know what she's looking at and it's making me self-conscious. So I kick her under the table. 

Jim sees it, of course. Probably thinks I'm flirting with her, no doubt. So he starts watching her and me. 

And it's dizzying really -- watching the eyes go back and forth, and me in the middle. 

"Hey, Sandburg, you still in this game?" 

"Yeah. Sorry, Henry. Guess I was somewhere else." 

"Must not be much of a hand there, if it's not keeping you interested." Rafe snickers and for some reason that irks me. 

"I'll see and raise." 

And now Henry's giving Rafe a dirty look. That makes three pairs of eyes watching something besides the cards. 

So I won, of course. 

How could I not? What with Henry and Rafe glaring at each other and Megan watching Jim watching me, everybody just seemed to follow my lead for a while until they noticed we'd seen and raised a huge pile of chips into the middle of the table. So then Jim pipes up with, 

"You guys must have some pretty impressive cards!" 

And all of a sudden everybody's looking at the garbage they're holding and mouths start droppin' open and you can almost hear their minds screaming "Shit!" And I just smile. And I think it's the smile that convinces them I got something. At that point, the rush to fold is dramatic. I think I felt the table rattle with the force of tossed cards. 

And Jim -- he's moseying to the kitchen and I just know he's stiflin' a laugh in there. I turn and I'm grinning. 

Which gets Henry squawking, "No fair!" 

"No fair? You serious?" 

"I think Hairboy and Ellison send signals." 

Henry's laughing so I relax a bit until Rafe pipes up, "They can't help it, Brown; married couples always know what each other's thinkin'." 

And now Megan's giving me this _look._ But I just smile my best bluffer's smile, "That's right, Henry, like bats -- communicating in supersonic squeaks." 

And I see that Jim's looking at me like he wishes he could squeak like a bat right about now. 

And he's just staring. I'm starting to get the impression that he doesn't know which end's up, and I'm just gloating inside. 

This is just too good to pass up. I mean, when else will I have Jim off-balance enough anymore to actually yank his chain? 

"Actually, it's a well-known fact that long-term couples develop a near-psychic connection after they've been together about, oh, three years.. and --" 

And I have to look up about now because Jim's just choked on his beer and Megan's slapping his back. More like pounding on him really. "Whaling" might be a better word, actually. And she's glaring at me and I'm shooting her my best "who-me?" look before going on, 

"-- and in fact, gay couples are known to develop the ability more fully because, you know, they have to be more discreet in public, what with prejudices and discrimination being what they are." 

And Henry and Rafe are looking at me like they just aren't sure and Jim's jaw is just about to join the folded cards on the table. And I'm just thinking that it's a good thing Simon couldn't make it tonight or I'd be in deep shit about now. 

"But unfortunately for us guys, it's the women who do a better job at this whole picking up on non-verbal cues, so it's the lesbians who have everybody beat, as far as communicating like bats." 

And Rafe and Henry are looking like a couple of my students now, listening intently, nodding occasionally. Megan's clearing her throat every once in a while, trying desperately not to blow it for me, and I'm thinking it's cool how much she's on my side in all this. 

Then, out of the blue, Rafe asks, "So ... you and Jim? 

"Me and Jim?" 

"Yeah, you and Jim." 

So I'm looking over at Jim at this point and there it is. The narrowed eyes. He's onto me. I knew it couldn't last for long, so now I'm just waiting for the boom to be lowered. But instead he says, 

"Blair, Sugar, I thought we were going to send engraved announcements; now the plans for our coming out party are just ruined! How could you be so inconsiderate! Don't I mean _anything_ to you?" 

* * *

"Ji-im! I told you to never call me 'Sugar' in front of the guys!" 

'Good comeback, Sandburg,' I thought. Connor seemed to think so, too. Poor kid was about to explode trying to hold back the giggles in her throat. But Rafe and H seemed a bit bewildered. Rafe spoke up first, 

"B-but you guys play basketball." 

And that was just too much for Connor who let loose with a guffaw that echoed off the balcony windows. 

Got to hand it to Sandburg, though; he held his 'You-better-believe-I've-got-four-aces' expression, turned and looked at Connor with a good likeness of puzzlement on his face. Then, he turned that face on Rafe and queried, 

"Basketball?" 

"Yeah. Basketball, like ... regular guys." 

"Basketball?" 

"Don't mind Blair," I'm saying, "He's--" 

"'Regular guys'?" 

"Yeah, Blair, you know... regular guys. You two don't seem like ... " 

" _Ir_ -regular guys?" 

And at this point Connor's lying on the couch, holding her belly, laughing so hard she's got tears just streaming down her face. And Rafe's actually looking a little concerned at this point. 

But by now, H is grinning a bit and asks, "Did you know about this, Megan?" 

Which makes her laugh even harder and at this point even Sandburg looks like he's going to lose it. But instead, he says, "Nah. Megan didn't know, Henry. You know: Don't ask, don't tell." 

And Rafe is running his hand over his hair, looking around with this really worried look on his face. 

But Henry won't drop it, so with a grin, he's saying, "You should know that doesn't work around here, Hairboy -- we're detectives. We're always going to ask. And we have ways to _make_ you tell." 

And I can tell that Rafe _wants_ to join in the merriment but he's got this puzzled look on his face. You know the one; you've probably had it yourself before -- the one where you know they're _saying_ it's all a joke but a small voice inside is saying "But..." and you're thinking that maybe there's a layer to this whole conversation that everybody maybe knows about but nobody's talking about, but you're just not sure what's real and what isn't. That's the look on Rafe's face right now. And it's a good thing, really. Shows Rafe's got the makings of a good detective -- he's just gotta keep hearing that nagging voice of his. 

Meanwhile, I'm thinking that I'd better have some words with Mr. Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell over there. Because Rafe's not the only decent detective in this room. 

* * *

I'm just about to explode. 

I know Jim's got something on his mind, but after last Friday's poker game, he's gone silent. 

I mean, it's not like he's stopped talking to me altogether or anything. 

"Sandburg, will you get your head out of your ass and pass the salt." 

"Hey! Why don't you try extracting that bug that's stuck up yours." 

But he just looks at me, maintaining that legendary stoicism of his. 

And that's just the thing. You don't have to be stoic unless there's something to be stoic about, right? 

And I know it has to do with my little spate of BS-ing the guys at the poker game. I knew Jim caught me yanking his chain. But I thought when he joined in, he was cool with the whole thing. But as soon as the guys left -- Megan still giggling, Henry grinning like a fool, and Rafe looking worried for some reason -- Jim just shut down. 

And now it's Wednesday and it's just gone on so long I'm thinking of-of-- 

"Sandburg!" 

"What!!?" 

"I've been talking for the past five minutes and you haven't heard a word. What. Is. Wrong. With. You?" 

Well, I guess throwing my spoon across the table wasn't the most mature of responses, so I can understand why he's blinking a bit. 

"What're you gonna do for an encore -- tear the bib off your neck and slide out of your highchair?" 

Knew he wouldn't be stunned for long. 

"Look, Ellison, I've put up with your silence for almost a week and I'm just about going to lose it!" 

"I think you just did." 

"Well, yeah. I guess I did. .... But if you don't start talking, I'm going to do it again." 

"What do you mean? I've been _talking_ for the past half hour but you haven't been listening. You've been out in la-la land. Like I'm not even in the room." 

"You've been talking about work. But ...there's been something on your mind-- I know it -- and you've been your usual, tight-lipped self. And it's driving me nuts!" 

"Well, if it's my usual self, as you claim, you should be used to it. So just let it be. Can you do that, Sandburg?" 

"No. No, I don't think I can anymore." 

You've never had a staring contest until you've tried to stare down Jim Ellison. But this is no interrogation room and _I'm_ not the one with something to hide. So his glare is wasted on me. 

Of course, Jim's a smart man, so he figures that out pretty quick. He's looking at me, sort of studying my feet. 

I figure I can cut him some slack at this point, so I get up and get us a couple of beers and sort of nod towards the couch before going to sit down. 

"Nice sunset." 

"Mmm." 

Not much of an answer, but I know he's with me. 

I think it's pretty funny how there are just times when we can't talk until we're side-by-side looking out into the distance. Sometimes I think we've had our best talks in the truck. Must be something about not having to deal with eye contact. And when Jim's driving, he probably feels less out of control. Or something. 

"I think Rafe's figured us out." 

Whoa. Wasn't ready for that. 

"Figured us out? Figured out _what_ , exactly? Are you talking about the sentinel thing?" 

"No. I'm _not_ talking about the sentinel thing. Don't be so dense; you're too smart for this." 

"Well, why don't you just clue me in, Detective. What exactly is Rafe onto?" 

"Our relationship." 

And warning bells are going off in my head. I'm hearing the approach of dragons and thinking that maybe not talking might have been one of Jim's better decisions. 

"And just what is there about our relationship that anybody has to 'figure out?' I mean, besides the sentinel thing." 

"The ... undercurrents. The subtext." 

"Oooh. Ellison's talking 'subtext,' now." 

"I have taken a few lit classes in my day, Professor. Besides, what do you think detectives _do_ when we're listening to suspects BS? 

"You all but _told_ them that we were a couple. And I think Rafe probably got it. Megan sure as hell got it. And I'm not completely stupid, Chief: _I_ got it." 

And I'm just stunned. What can I say to that? 

"But ... how can _you_ think-- I mean, you're _in_ the relationship. A couple?!" 

"Have I ever told you how much I love it when you can't string more than three words together?" 

And the fucker is laughing! 

After he rubs his arm where I hit him, he takes pity on me. 

"You're not going to tell me that you weren't expressing some sort of unconscious desires, are you?" 

"'Unconscious desires'? What _have_ you been reading?" 

"Do you want to talk about this or do you want to skirt the issue?" 

And I'm feeling like shit about now. 

"Sorry. So the thing that's bugging you is that I made people think we were a couple?" 

"No, Sandburg. What's bugging me is that I think we already are a couple." 

* * *

Well, _that_ shut him up. 

For about two minutes. 

"What!?" 

And Sandburg's doing that nervous giggle of his. He's the one who's been flirting with this idea these last few months, but now that I've laid it out, he's looking panicked. I feel kind of bad about it, but ..... 

"You asked, Chief." 

"Yeah. I asked." 

But he doesn't look too happy about the answer. 

"Are you really that surprised? I mean, that the subject came up?" 

"Truthfully? No. I expected it some time. Just not now, ya know?" 

"I know." 

And that's all he said for a while, which surprised me. No denial. No analysis. No suggestion that it was just some mystical sentinel thing. Nothing but silence. 

He just starts peeling the label off his beer bottle and looks out the window. It's a pretty heavy thing I've brought up so I go with his silence and join him in sunset watching for a while. 

"So, Jim?" 

"Chief?" 

And I brace myself as we enter foreign territory. 

"How do you feel about us? The way we are? Have been? Whatever." 

"Fine. No complaints." 

"Anything you want to change?" 

And a part of me rebels against the idea that we have to consciously change anything, that relationships are anything that ... structured. That we can't just go along letting things evolve naturally. That we should even talk about it. 

But I figure it's out there on the table. 

"Not sure, Blair." 

"Well, you say we're already a couple. So ... um ...?" 

"You sure you're ready to go there?" 

"No. But ...." 

His beer bottle is totally label-less and I'm thinking he looks pretty shook up, so I put my elbow around his neck and kind of squeeze. A regular guy hug. But he's stiffening up, and not the way you might think considering the topic of conversation. And it just kills me that this has gotten to him so much. That it makes him shrink from me. 

"Is the idea that terrible for you. Am I so ...?" I hope he can hear my voice, because I've barely found enough air to speak. 

"Ah, nah, Jim. You're ... I'm ... " 

And he's looking up at me with those big blue eyes and I can only think about all the other times he's looked at me like that. 

*('One week, Jim I promise_. Just one week and I'll be out of your hair.' .... 'It's about friendship; I just never got it before.')* 

And I realize that I never should have doubted. 

"Love you too, Chief." 

* * *

I'm sure you've been wondering what happened after Jim came out with his little announcement that he thinks we're already a couple. 

Well, what do you _think_ happened?! 

I spent hours trying to deny it to myself. Not in the 'I think gay relationships are wrong' sort of way. More like I couldn't exactly see how he came up with the idea. Well I could, but then again, it seemed sort of off the wall. 

I mean, wouldn't I have noticed if I was in a gay relationship? It's not like 'ho hum, good ol' Blair's lusting after an other guy again,' or anything like that. Because as a rule, I haven't noticed any guy-lust in my past. Not in this lifetime, anyway. 

I won't lie to you and say that I don't have a sense of aesthetics when it comes to looking at the male physique. I'm sure most men do. I mean, they must. After all, they have to have some picture of what a good-looking man is just to size up the competition. It's only logical, right? So having an aesthetic appreciation of, say, Jim's chest and biceps or his amazing blue eyes -- that's not really a clue, is it? 

Well, I went on and on like this for quite a while. But then I thought about what Jim said and you know, it wasn't really about lust. He was talking about our being in a _relationship._ Which, yeah, implies physical stuff, but it sort of emphasizes, you know, the connection. The affection. The love. 

And I won't lie to you: I definitely do love my partner. 

But-- 

Well, you know what comes after the 'but.' I wonder about all the different kinds of love there are in the universe and wonder if we're not just confusing one kind for another, you know? 

So anyway, I'm puzzling this stuff out, and decide to get out of the loft and into the world. Maybe walk around. Clear my head. 

But my head's not any clearer now than it was, oh an hour ago, when I started this walk. 

And now? Well, now I'm sitting here in this corner of -- don't laugh -- the Dew Drop Inn. Despite its having a name you expect to find only in cartoons about hillbillies, it's a pretty nice place. You might not have heard about it. It's a place students talk about around Rainier. A bar near the university with a fairly young clientele. Well, okay, it's a gay bar. But more like 60-40. 

I'm not going to claim that I came here by accident, but I didn't exactly plan to be here, either. More of an impulse born of curiosity. I figure I could do what I've been trained to do -- observe. 

I don't know what I expected to see here. It feels more like a pub than a bar. Guys sitting at tables drinking beer, talking. Guys playing darts. Lots of guys. Mostly guys. 

And I'm realizing that on any given day, I see more women at the PD than I'm seeing here. 

Is that how my life will be? Will my world become more narrow, now? Is this who I am? 

I can feel my chest tighten and a sort of sadness coming over me: 

Why should what amounts to a declaration of love bring such confusion to me? 

And that's just it, isn't it. People think that just because I have the hair and the earrings and talk the way I do that, you know, I'm so open-minded my brain should fall out. 

They think that just because my mom was a hippie in an era when others like her thought that love was the answer to every question, well then, somehow I internalized that message and no other. 

But reality has hit and I can tell you that Blair Sandburg has been taught a thing or two about how men are supposed to be. And being in a gay relationship was not part of the lesson plan, except maybe as an example of what _not_ to do. 

And it's not that I think the lesson plan was right. I know enough about cultural relativity and learned behaviors and the wide variety in what humans call 'normal.' I know there is nothing rational about my incipient panic here. But it's here; it's real. 

And I'm realizing that I'd better work this out pretty damn soon. If for no other reason than the fact that Jim deserves better from me. 

And I can think of no better motivation than that. 

* * *

"Mr. Sandburg?" 

You know, normally, I would not have thought twice about who saw me where, but when I saw Karen standing there with that _look_ on her face, I had this strong urge to pretend I was in one of those P.G. Wodehouse stories they show on PBS and just look at her blankly and say, "Mr. Who?" But even _I_ couldn't pull that off, so I just tried to look, you know, innocent. Though, really I felt as though if I'd had any innocence left, it was definitely completely gone. 

"Karen. Hi. You were in my class ... two semesters ago?" 

"Three. I'm surprised you remember my name." 

And she's standing there looking awkward so I gesture for her to sit at my table. She sits but she looks fidgety like maybe she's embarrassed about something. I hate to say it but I'm feeling relieved that _my_ dilemma probably won't be up for discussion. 

"So ...?" I say brightly. 

"I'm waiting for my brother and his ..." And here, she lowers her voice just a fraction, ".. his boyfriend." Her expression's an odd mixture of embarrassment and toughness: a hot redness on cheeks; a defiant thrust of chin. 

Will _my_ friends start whispering about me, too? 

"So .. is it a new boyfriend? You met him before?" 

"No. I mean, yes. It's my brother's ... first. And I'm... the only one he's, um, out to, so I'm the one ..." 

"He's taking him home to 'mother,' right? Except you're the surrogate." 

And she's nodding like one of those dolls you see in rear windows of old Chevys. So I smile at her and sort of take her hand, you know, to reassure her. But that just makes her nervous until I say, "Don't worry, you'll do fine." She smiles a bit but pulls her hand away. Then I see it in her eyes, the moment she changes the subject: 

"Who are _you_ waiting for?" 

"Um, I'm not. I just needed to think about something for a while." 

"How long have you been out?" 

Now I'm remembering more than her name. She's the one that used to sit in the back of the classroom looking a little nervous most of the time but then would raise her hand to ask the question no one else was asking. 

Not her fault, though, that I don't really want to answer, this time. Don't know how to answer, really. So I just roll up my sleeve, grin, and look at my watch. 

"About two minutes." 

Poor girl's so flustered, I laugh. 

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Sandburg. Really it's none of my business." 

"It's OK. Um. I guess I just found out today that I--" 

I don't even know how to finish that sentence. 'That I might be gay'? 'That I have a boyfriend'? 

"That you aren't exactly how you thought you were?" And now I'm the one who's nodding like one of those dolls. Just me and my dumbly bobbing Blair-head. 

"That's what my brother said the first time he told me. He said other gay guys he's talked to felt that way, also. At first, anyway. So I guess it's normal." 

"I don't feel so normal." 

"I hear that's normal, too." 

Suddenly she starts giggling uncontrollably. And I discover that hysteria can be contagious. 

By the time her brother and his boyfriend show up, I'm in tears. Of laughter. 

Probably. 

* * *

Well, _that_ went well. The kid was out of here so fast, I can still see the dust whirling in his wake. 

Y'know, intellectually I buy the idea that talking about stuff is a good thing. But I just wish to hell I knew how to do a better job of it. I mean, how does a guy that thinks in pictures lay it out in words? 

It's been two hours since he left me here to wonder where we stand. Where I stand. 

And where _do_ I stand? 

I've been thinking about this as though it's all up to Blair. As though if he says go, we go. 

But he's not the only one who finds this whole thing a little weird. I mean, I was _married,_ for God's sake. To a woman. To someone I _thought_ I was in love with. 

If anyone had asked me ten years ago, when they pulled me out of Peru, whether I could conceivably fall in love with a man, be in a couple with a man, I would have told them they were crazy. I would have wondered where the question had come from. 

But now ... Now I'm just here. In it. As though love were a _place._

Like the jungles of Peru. 

It's like we had strapped on our parachutes not knowing what they were. Like we stepped out of the plane, not knowing the door was open. It was like a gliding freefall, so gradual, so comfortable, that we forgot that we hadn't always been airborne, hadn't always just been headed this way. 

But there always would be a time when we'd have to pull the chord. When we'd have to land. In the trees or on the ground. A thump at the bottom. 

A time when we'd have to gather ourselves up, gather the chute together. Pull the leaves from our hair, from our clothes. Brush the dirt off. Shake our heads. Find our compasses. Figure out where the hell we were. Wonder how we got here. Wonder which way to go next. 

And that's where we stand. Where I stand. 

In the jungle waiting for Blair to tumble from the trees, with dust on his cheek and leaves in his hair. Hoping he'll look ahead and think that the path in front of us looks inviting. Like it was worth the crashing thump that got him here. Hoping he'll see me as a worthy companion on this journey. 

I just wish to hell I could speak my thoughts as clearly as I see them, some times. I wish I could just say how I feel, the way that I feel it. 

But I look at him in awe, see the bright light shining from within him. And overpowered by the dazzle, I feel my own thoughts pale, see them fade. 

And the words don't come. 

* * *

Tomorrow's going to be a rougher day than usual. For us both, probably. At least Jim's getting some sleep. Though it can't be all that comfortable for him on the couch here. 

He does this sometimes -- staying up worrying about me, pretending to watch TV until I come home. And if I'm out too late, he sometimes just falls asleep on the sofa here. He knows that I've caught him a couple of times because he's been startled when I've turned the TV off. But he doesn't know about some of the other times, when I just leave it on and sit here watching him sleep. 

Like right now. 

Sleep's not likely to come for me tonight; my mind's too busy. 

I watched Karen and her brother Rick, and then Rick and his boyfriend Dan, for about an hour and saw ... what? A sister and brother brought closer by a shared secret, and two people obviously smitten but nervous. So what else is new? The silhouette the lovers would make on a wall. Their combined body language. The harmonic mixture of their voices. Those were new. 

Not like I'd never seen gay men before, or even gay couples. It's just that I'd never really *observed * a gay couple before. 

Poor guys. I probably made them feel as though they were under a microscope. Like I was some sort of collector of rare insects. 

They were pretty nice to me considering my tendency to squint when I get focused on somebody. I know I do that. Probably has to do with my near-sightedness; I probably should wear my glasses for more than just reading. But really it's more than that; I think it has to do with wanting to really focus on people. What they have to say. And Rick and Dan were telling me a lot. Even when they weren't trying to. 

I'm thinking that maybe it would have been easier if I had figured out this new thing about myself when I was 20 like they are, instead of now when I'm almost 30. 

But when I was 20, I hadn't met Jim. And before meeting Jim, I hadn't really let any men in close. I probably hadn't let much of anybody in close. Such was my history with both men _and_ women. 

And you know, I'm starting to think the word 'history' is key here. 

A while ago, I sat in on a series of lectures about how film and television tell us who we are, how to be; how they are part of the media of enculturation. And as part of the series, we saw the documentary "The Celluloid Closet," about how gays and lesbians have been portrayed in the movies over the past 90 years or so. 

In that documentary, I remember Susan Sarandon talking about her role in a film with Catherine Deneuve. I forget the title, don't know the premise. But apparently Sarandon's character was to be seduced by Deneuve's. The writer or director had wanted Sarandon's character to be drunk, to give her an excuse to enter this lesbian affair. But Sarandon objected to the idea that her character would be denied choice that way; she wanted her to enter into it straight up sober. 

Sarandon cracked me up when she said something like "I don't care what your sexual history had been up till that point -- no one would need to be drunk to want to bed Catherine Deneuve." 

And I'm thinking now that it was significant that she used the word 'history' instead of 'orientation.' Because 'orientation' implies that who you want sexually is a matter of _essence,_ your genes, your soul, whatever. It's like an orientation defines who you are. 

So I'm thinking that if I look to my past for my _orientation_ , I can only see that I have had sex with women. And maybe sexuality is like that for most people. Some say it's genetic. Dan said he felt that way about himself. Others have said that we're all naturally bisexual and it's cultural influences that push us one way or another. And Rick said he felt like he might have been born bisexual. Two guys, two answers. 

But 'history' merely implies 'what's gone before'; it refers to your actions, not your essence. 

So now I'm thinking that if I look to my own past, maybe I could see it only as history. What I've normally done. But history can be changed. People change history all the time. Slowly. One day at a time. 

And I'm thinking now, that's what happened here. Jim and I, we grew together. One day at a time. Until history changed. 

So I guess that's another answer. 

"Hey, Chief. Looks like I fell asleep." 

"Yeah, looks that way." 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah, I think so. Yeah. You?" 

"Yeah. I am now." 

And he's reaching out and grabbing my foot, giving it a squeeze. 

And I'm thinking how glad I am to be here, to have another day right here. 

"Hey, Jim?" 

"Hmmm?" 

"Have I ever told you what Susan Sarandon once said about Catherine Deneuve?" 

* * *

End Normal by Marmoset

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